


Reprisal

by AlleiraDayne



Series: The End [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Awkward Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 06:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11435328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: Natalie finds the perfect opportunity to get back at Sam for his last prank.





	Reprisal

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as part of a RomCom Fluff Challenge on Tumblr, where I chose the quote "I'll have what she's having" from When Harry Met Sally.

The orange haze of the dim tavern echoed a memory from her childhood, a simpler time long forgotten and buried in the recess of her past. Regulars dotted the bar, some chatting, other silent as they sipped their liquor, their beers, and stared their blank stares at nothing.

Natalie edged her way to the end of the bar, careful not to draw any attention. The last thing she needed was a guy old enough to be her father desperate for attention and seeing it from her. God, but that would be her luck. All she wanted was a drink while she waited.

She had hoped that the dive bar would prove profitable but as she scanned her surroundings, that notion was dead on arrival. There were no games she could bate someone into, not a deck of cards in sight – she scolded herself for not keeping one on her, but very few people were stupid enough to get hustled by a chick in a bar with her own deck of cards – and there was little else at which she was skilled enough to even attempt a hustle.

And then there was the pool table, isolated in the corner with its single overhead light. The felt was in abysmal shape and the cues looked as curved as timber curing for a ship hull. Even then, she could use all that to her advantage, but there wasn’t a soul in that bar dumb enough to hustle. No, _these_ folks were hardened veterans and farmers, mechanics and construction workers. She couldn’t take their money.

But she could use the cash, her grumbling stomach reminding her of that fact. A bowl of popcorn slid to her hands as if summoned by her thoughts, and when Natalie looked up, an eyebrow quirked towards her hairline.

“What’ll it be?”

Natalie hesitated, baffled by the bartender. Beautiful, tall and blonde like Elizabeth, but thin instead of muscled. The tip bucket must be overflowing if her plunging tank top and two bras meant anything.

“You okay, hun?”

“Er …” she stuttered with a shake of her head, “Yeah, I'm good. I'll take a Balvenie, neat.”

The bartender smirked as she said, “My kinda girl. You in town long or just passin' through?”

Before Natalie could respond, the door of the bar swung wide with a dull ring of its bell hung from the ceiling, announcing a newcomer. Both women turned, the bartender with her careful eye and Natalie ready to run in a hot second. But when Sam appeared, she eased back in her seat, relief washing over her.

It was the bartender’s turn to stare, an eyebrow twitching skyward as she looked between Sam and Natalie. When Sam spotted her tucked in the far corner, a grin spread from ear to ear, and the bartender gaped. Natalie did her best to hide her smile; it wasn’t the first time a woman had read her flannel, jeans, boots, and scotch wrong.

 _And it won’t be the last_ , she thought.

In a few quick strides, Sam crossed the bar and took a seat beside Natalie. He dragged the chair to her side, so close his radiating warmth washed over her in a heady scent of gun oil and musty books.

“Sorry, I’m late,” he said as he gave her thigh a squeeze. “Dean needed a hand.”

She nodded as the bartender returned with her drink, then spoke to Sam. “What’ll it be, sweetie?”

You’d think a guy would get used to that sort of talk from a bartender, but not Sam. No sir, if a pretty woman smiled at him, his embarrassment was your best bet. Sure enough, a twitch flicked the corners his lips into a small smile as he averted his stare and hint of pink colored his nose. Natalie promised herself to give him shit for it later.

“Bottle of Margie, please,” he replied, cool and calm as ever.

The bartender left them once more and Natalie spoke in her absence.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded with a shrug, casual as always. “Dean’s fine. He didn’t really need my help, Liz was there,” he said with a dismissive flip of his hand. “ _Those_ two. Peas in a pod.”

An obnoxious bark of a laugh filled the bar, Natalie clamping her hand over her mouth at the outburst. “Sorry,” she muttered, though it wasn’t necessary. Sam’s smile returned, full as ever, and it sparked a fire in her belly, an ache only he could soothe. Son of a bitch, how did he do that with only a toothy grin?

When the bartender returned with his beer, he laid cash on the bar and thanked her, then took a long draw from the bottle. Natalie sipped from her scotch, wondering, an old thought from too many days passed returning to the surface.

“Do you think they know?”

Sam snorted into his beer, laughing. “I don’t think so. They’re far too occupied with each other lately. “

Another sip on her scotch put half the liquor in her belly, cheeks warm and hunger forgotten. “Really? You don’t think they … hear us?”

He glared at her, drawing another long pull from the bottle. “They better not. That’s … ugh, no, just … no, they don’t,” he said with a shudder.

“How do you know?” she pressed, alcohol encouraging her.

Another sarcastic roll of his eyes preceded his response. “What do you mean ‘how do you know?’, I know,” he muttered.

The bottle stopped half way his lips. Sam froze, taut as a drawn bow string at her touch. “But we …” she suggested, her hand slipping over his thigh.

A ragged breath pulled from his chest as he spoke. “Yes, we …”

“And I’m … _vocal_.”

He laughed then, tension fleeing as though it had never existed. When he continued to laugh, Natalie withdrew her hand with a shove of his leg, laughing with him. Their mirth lingered, drawing out until Sam said the stupidest thing possible.

“You’re not _that_ vocal.”

While Natalie had learned plenty about Sam over the last year, it seemed he had failed to learn half as much about her. And although that was terribly unfortunate for him, it was the perfect opportunity for her to capitalize on his last prank. _Never challenge a Murphy._

“Not _that_ vocal, hm?” she asked, arms folding across her chest.

He shook his head with hint of a frown. “No, not really, no more than most,” he replied, taking the last pull from his bottle.

“Figures,” she snorted, leaving the thought hanging.

She had him then, hook, line, and sinker. His dower glare narrowed on her, suspicious eyes searching for a hint, a tell. “’Figures’ what?”

A final sip from her scotch was the last bit of courage she needed. “Figures you’d say bullshit like that, ‘no more than most’. Yeah, you’re a man, positive of everything.”

That sounded far surlier than she’d intended, but it was working. He stared at her with a sardonic curve to his lips and a quirk of one brow. “You don’t think I know what I’m talking about?”

Natalie shook her head as she said, “Nope.”

“Whatever,” he snorted as he turned back to the bar.

It was now or never. She shoved all-in on the river.

Her first moan snapped his head sideways as if he’d been slapped. And then the second, longer and louder, widened his eyes. By the third moan, Sam attempted to quiet her, but she resisted, leaning back in her chair and a hand running through her hair as a long, high moan ripped from her heaving chest.

If she ever thought to tell someone this story later, she’d say she was faking it. But that would be a lie. Thoughts bubbled up from a more recent memory – _last night_ – and she was atop him again, riding him until her legs gave out. Sweaty bodies pressed together, her beasts against the hard expanse of his chest, and she rolled her hips in time with his, thrusting in perfect rhythm through a climax unlike any other.

Back in the bar, reality and fantasy mingled as Natalie writhed in her chair as she continued moaning, panting. Sam grabbed her knees to keep her still but to no avail. Natalie continued to moan, louder and louder with each cry, hands slapping the bar. With each second, her voice reached new heights, repeating mantras of, “Oh, God, yes!” and, “Yes, right there, yes! More! _Fuck me, Sam, more, harder, more! YES!_ ”

The final moment passed in a resounding, wordless keen, and then, as if nothing had happened at all, Natalie righted herself in her chair, returning to the dredges of her scotch. Every eye in the bar stared, shifting between her and Sam, but she paid them no mind.

A careful glance found Sam with a hand over his mouth as he held in his laughter, entire body shaking as he tried to contain himself. And then, from clear across the bar, the only other woman patron spoke.

“Bartender?”

The stunned bartender turned with an unsteady shuffle.

“I’ll have what she’s having!”

Natalie vowed then and there to make Sam laugh until he cried regularly, for there was no sound sweeter than his happiness. Cheeks red and gasping for breath, they cackled, and when the bartender told the woman she already _was_ drinking the same thing as Natalie, she grimaced at the glass in her hand as if to curse it for not doing the same for her.

Howling with laughter, Natalie clenched her stomach. “Oh, God, it hurts. Stop laughing!”

Sam wiped at tears that streamed down his face. “I can’t! I can’t believe you did that!”

Natalie hiccupped, coughing and laughing as she tried to speak. “Me neither, but—I had to get you back!”

“Get me back?” he gasped as his laughter subsided. “For what?”

The bartender refilled her glass without asking, and Sam traded his empty bottle for a new one. “For what?! For your last bullshit prank, that’s what.”

“Pff,” he scoffed. “You think an exploding pie is bad?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, “It took me fifteen minutes to get it all out of my hair!”

Sam’s chuckled, tickled by the memory. “Hah, yeah, that was great.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she spat, “it was a giant mess.”

“Yeah, and I cleaned it up,” he stated. “You _could_ have asked for help with your hair.”

Her laughter clipped with a click of her teeth, the idea of herself and Sam in the shower far too alluring to let go. “As amazing as that sounds right now, a couple weeks ago we were still …” she floundered, words lost and she sought them in her drink. “You know.”

His small smile, the one he seemed to reserve for her, tugged at the corners of his lips. “We were still awkward dorks.”

“’Awkward dorks’ is one way to put it,” she started, “but I was thinking more like hunters that avoid relationships for a reason.”

Sam raised his beer to that, and Natalie met his toast. “To us,” he saluted.

Maybe there was hope for them after all.

“To us.”


End file.
